


Send Me Back A Thousand Days

by ackermom



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Future Fic, Getting Back Together, M/M, well technically it could be canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-06 22:12:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18860143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ackermom/pseuds/ackermom
Summary: The boy in the frame is slipping off his jacket. He looks into the camera, suddenly aware of its presence. He’s not smiling yet. But the sun is shining across his face, and Jack remembers that this was the first time he ever loved Kent.





	Send Me Back A Thousand Days

**Author's Note:**

> written for the 2019 omgcp reverse bang with [art](https://faiasakura.tumblr.com/post/185195048861/my-omgcp-reverse-bang-2019-art-the-premise-i-came) by [faiasakura](https://faiasakura.tumblr.com/). title is from [surrender](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CO8QTlAwFT0) by walk the moon.
> 
> featuring minor appearances by other characters and a mutual jack/bittle breakup.

Ireland was their last chance.

For months, they didn’t talk. Or maybe they did. What Jack remembers now is the distance between them, the silence across the dinner table, and the way they sat there with steak knives, instead of falling over each other on the sofa like they used to do. There was no more pretending that they weren’t adults. No more imagining something else, something that could have been. That summer is gone now; it faded like a lightbulb in the back of Jack’s brain. They’d been fading too, in days without words, weeks without touch. He can’t remember the last time Bittle looked him in the eye, and that’s how he knows they both knew.

Somehow, they thought a honeymoon would save them. On a clear night in July, they landed: jaded, hungry, bored. By the time they got to Cork, it was over. They were over. 

Jack kissed the Blarney Stone anyways. He’ll take any gifts he can get. 

Still, he doesn’t count this as a failure. Not a loss, never a waste of time. They were good for each other for a while, and then they weren’t. They both knew what was coming, and it was their mutual respect that made the break-up so efficient. Bittle moved out before the season began. He still lives in that apartment, somewhere on the other side of town with a view of the river. An extra large fridge and a brand new range. That's all Jack gets to know anymore, and that's fine.

Jack’s fine, until takes his camera out that winter to capture Providence's first snowfall, and when he's uploading the photos to his computer, he finds their album from Ireland. He sees a sadness in Bittle's eyes, one that he recognizes in his mirror every morning. He sees two people who don't remember how to love each other. He sees the hesitation in their smiles and he thinks for the first time that they were both looking for something else. They'd had it once, years ago, when they had light in their eyes, when they thought they'd be together forever. They were so young in all of those old photos: dumb enough to fall in love. But they grew up, they grew apart, and at the end of it all, they were still looking.

 

 

 

 

He is home for Christmas, at the behest of his parents. He starts to protest when his mother issues the order. 

"I have plans," Jack says over the phone. 

"Really?" Alicia asks. "With who?" 

Jack pauses. "I had plans, I guess."

It was supposed to be their first Christmas together, alone, just the two of them. Jack's not nearly as devastated by the loss of those plans as his friends and family seem to think; he receives texts and phone calls and DMs all week before Bittle messages the group chat reminding everyone that they're fine. Still, it would be sad to spend the holidays alone in Providence. Dumped and defeated, now deserted? How depressing. 

Those are the words his mother does not say, thought she might as well have; her lopsided carrot cake for Christmas dinner hurts much more than waking up alone. It's the first time in a long time that Jack's come home empty-handed of pies. 

He needs a breath of fresh air. He needs to let go. 

 

 

 

 

 

It's not quite the new year, but it's never too early to start over. Jack begins in his parents' basement. Boxes of his things line the back walls: jerseys, pucks, and championship tee-shirts. There are photos, hundreds of them, tucked into the pages of an abandoned scrapbook. An attempt was made once, before his parents realized they were not those kind of people. The best pictures were framed instead. They still hang in the house, up and down the stairwell, across the mantle, on the armoire in the dining room. He sets the scrapbook aside to organize later.

There are mementos from every moment of his life. It's every breath he took, every goal he made, every holiday and tournament and ceremony. The sheer number of things in the basement stifles him. All these years, and still, here he is. The same, or better, or different. It's hard to tell as he watches his face change in the dated photos at the bottom of every cardboard box. It's hard to remember who he was, who he could have been, who he is now.

Somehow, he leaves the basement worse than he found it. The boxes of his life are upturned in every corner, their contents laid on the floor for judgement outright. Jack sits back on his heels and sighs. The sight exhausts him. The thought. What to keep, what to leave. What to put away and what to carry with him.

He reaches for the scrapbook and idly shuffles through the glossy photographs. A flash of gold catches his eye. It's just a lens flare, shining across what looks like a childhood birthday party in the backyard, but it grabs him. It stirs something in him, and he remembers. He bounds upstairs.

All these years later, the journal is still where Jack left it. He tries not to think about the irony as he pulls it from its hiding space in his closet.

The pages are crisp under his fingers. Heavy card stock, acid free, archival quality. Still sharp after all this time. The journal binding crackles as he flips through the pages, letting the photo strips pass by. Some of the polaroids are peeling off the paper, their white edges curling up towards him. For all the time that he dedicated to keeping his collection organized, he could have taken better care of the photos themselves. He could have used something other than a glue stick to paste them down. But that wasn't his priority at seventeen.

Some of the pictures instantly jump out at him. The colors have faded and were never that good to begin with. But the pages flip by like a replay of his life and he recognizes the scenes. He remembers being in them. The journal begins in black and white. Artsy shots from his first camera, the polaroid he got for a birthday and left in his backpack for six months. The images are hesitant. Shots of the ice, his skates, the back of someone else's shoes as he tried to capture himself walking. The first few pages span an entire year. The photos are sporadic and reserved. Some of them are so poorly lit that Jack has to read the caption to know what exactly what they're supposed to have captured. There's a blank space in the summer of 2009: the end of the season, spent alone. Then the photo strips begin in color with familiar shots of his billet family's house. His old bedroom. His gear, arranged to fill the frame. His teammates, laughing together.

Jack flips the page. The next spread is nearly empty. There's just one photo: a thin polaroid strip of golden light, laid carefully in the center of the page. There's no description, no caption, no page number. Just a short scribbled title and the date. Jack doesn't need that to know exactly when this photo was taken. He remembers this. Late days in the Q, a sunny spring afternoon trailing through the backwoods of his billet family's neighborhood. The boy in the frame is slipping off his jacket. He looks into the camera, suddenly aware of its presence. He’s not smiling yet. But the sun is shining across his face, and Jack remembers that this was the first time he ever loved Kent. 

The pages of the journal are a shrine. Jack flips through them in silence. The photos crunch under his touch. They are laid out one by one, sharp moments of life and color plastered onto stark white pages. His young handwriting scratches the name and date beneath ever plastic strip. Some are annotated with captions and memories and letters. It's like walking back in time as he searches the pages, each photo replaying a moment in his mind. Losing a game that Christmas. Sneaking beers on the back porch. Their knees touching on the bench. Kent's unbuttoned shirt collar.

The journal ends abruptly. 

Jack sits back against the wall. The empty white pages stare back at him. There's room for more, if only they'd gotten the chance. He flips backwards, trying to read the mysterious gaze that watches him from the other side of the camera lens. Discovering him. Worrying about him. Loving him.

Jack remembers more with each photo. He wonders how they would have filled the rest of the book. 

 

 

 

 

 

Through crisp white skies, the plane flies. Jack heads straight for a game from his parents' house, the brief reprieve of the holiday season having come to an end. The Falconers are playing in Las Vegas, of all places, and Jack tries not to think about the shiny, golden photos he found in the back of his closet. The meticulous handwritten notes curling around the plastic edges of the polaroids. The care, the time, the love his seventeen year old self put into that journal. He tries not to think about any of that lest the process on his face reveal something to Kent on the ice. 

But that's hard to do when the loveworn journal is sitting in a bag just above his head, and his thoughts are eating at him- what could've happened, what should've happened, what would have gone into those blank pages if only he hadn't dropped out of the draft. If only he hadn't overdosed. If only none of that had mattered. 

Three hours left. Jack leans his head back against the seat, and he goes to sleep instead. 

 

 

 

 

"Jack."

Has it already been three hours?

"Jack, you good, man?"

He scrunches his face, one hand rubbing his forehead as he comes to slowly, yawning. He must've really passed out on the plane. He feels different, his legs aching, and he's hot suddenly, sweating beneath his pullover. No, wait. Beneath his suit jacket?

Jack opens his eyes.

Light bursts in front of him. The world is white and yellow, glowing and shining, and it takes Jack a moment to remember to blink. When he opens his eyes again, everything around him comes into focus. The string lights, the sunflowers, the white drapes across the walls. The dance floor, shimmering with moving bodies. The table beside him, splayed with finished plates and flickering candles in tiny glass jars. His phone laid beside his empty wine glass. His dress shoes, their laces loose. His good suit, his tie undone, and someone's hand on his shoulder.

"Jack," someone repeats.

The noise hits him. The music, the laughter, the clinking of plates and glasses. The sound rushes over him, and Jack blinks again, jerking upright in his seat, one hand clutched to his forehead as he stares around the warmly lit room. He glances across at the person sitting beside him with a hand on his shoulder, a glass of wine in their other hand. 

He squints. “Ransom?”

Over Ransom’s shoulder appears another familiar face, breaking into an eager smile. “Morning, sunshine! You pass out or something?”

“Holster,” Jack says, still confused. “Yeah, something like that.”

He drops hands into his lap and runs them over the expensive fabric of his suit pants. He's not entirely sure that he's not dreaming. Maybe hallucinating. Trapped in some weird dream carnival, with lots of bowtied waiters pouring wine and little kids running around in wrinkled dresses. 

He turns back to Ransom, who is scrolling through photos on his phone. As far as Jack can tell, they’re photos from tonight: the suits and lights look the same, but he only gets a glance before Ransom can feel him watching and he looks up. 

Jack rubs the bridge of his nose. “Ransom, where am I?” 

Ransom chuckles into his glass of wine, setting his phone aside. “Man, you were really out, weren’t you?” 

“I’m serious,” Jack says. 

"Jack, we're at the reception." He raises an eyebrow. "You were the best man?" 

Jack stares at him. “For who?"

On Ransom’s other side, Holster snorts and nearly chokes on a mouthful of champagne. “For who?” he repeats through a cough. “Dude!” 

“For Tater,” Ransom exclaims. He lowers his wine glass, brow furrowed. “I was kidding earlier, but did you hit your head or something?”

The lively music cuts out, the dance floor emptying as another song begins, something slower and softer. The lights dim overhead, casting a warm glow across the room, and Jack gets a good look around for the first time as people return to their seats. It's a wedding reception, like Ransom said. But it's not a room at all, he realizes, as a warm breeze rushes across the ground, rustling the ends of the tablecloths. Dozens of tables sit beneath the roof of a huge tent that drips with golden string lights and silver streamers that move gently in the wind, shimmering across the reception and lighting up the night. Couples take to the dance floor for the slow ballad, and though he has to squint to see them, Jack recognizes some of them: Marty and his wife, Georgia and her fiancee, Shitty and Lardo. 

He's the best man at Tater's wedding, according to Ransom and Holster. And that's- well, the first thought Jack has is that yes, he is, he knows that, except Tater's wedding is still nine months away. 

Ransom nudges him. “Are you okay?” 

Jack glances at him, blinking, then takes a breath. “Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry, I think I just spaced out for a bit.”

"Too much dancing, I bet," Ransom says with a smirk.

"I wasn't dancing," Jack starts to say. He doesn't finish, because his feet are aching. "I mean, yeah, I guess so."

Holster stands from the table, collecting a set of empty glasses, and he scoots out from his chair, glancing around for a waiter. “Rans, you want another glass? Jack, I would offer one to you too, but you look like you just came back from Oz.” 

Jack pulls his hands down over his face. “Yeah, uh. Could you just tell me- where’s the bathroom?” 

 

 

 

 

In the mirror, his face looks the same. 

He stands there for a long time, staring at himself in the quiet bathroom. He's himself, is the question he was wondering the most, and now that he's confirmed that, he's just got to figure out- what the hell is going on. 

Jack blinks at his reflection. It blinks back at the same time. He touches the tired skin of his forehead, pushes a hand back through his hair, and then without a second thought for how foolish he must look, he pinches his cheek. It's sharp. So, this is either real, or it's a very convincing dream. 

Maybe he just accidentally discovered time travel. Maybe he passed out on that plane and slept for nine months and his friends just carried his body around Weekend at Bernie's style in the hopes that he would wake up soon. Those are the only two possibilities that Jack can accept at this moment. 

He turns away and leans back against the sink, reaching into his pocket. He pulls out his phone and swipes in. Same passcode, same home screen. He starts going through his emails, scanning for any signs or reasons that he may be here. Did he take a bad hit and lose nine months of his life? Did the whole world experience a time skip? Is he really just losing it? But his inbox reveals nothing he didn't already know. It's the same as he remembers, the way it should be, just a few months ahead of him. The Flyers won the cup this year. He didn't see that one coming. 

Jack closes his phone and takes a deep breath, his eyes closed. Everything is the same, at least. 

The bathroom door swings open suddenly, and Jack stares with wide eyes at the very familiar person that crosses through, a half-empty glass of red wine clutched carefully in one hand, the other hand holding a phone up to his ear. Jack's phone begins ringing in his hands.

"Oh, there you are," Kent Parson says. The door swings shut behind him, and he lowers his phone, cancelling the call. Jack's phone stops ringing. "Ransom said you woke up from a coma and went running for the toilet." 

"Yeah," Jack says. "I mean, that's not what happened, but- uh, Kent, what are you doing here?" 

Kent moves towards him, taking a sip of his wine as he walks. He steps right up to Jack, cozies up next to him leaning against the sink, and leans in for a kiss. "Looking for you." 

Okay. So, not everything is the same. 

Jack has about a half-second to decide whether he wants to let Kent Parson mack on him in this bathroom at Tater's wedding, and though his shoulders roll backwards instinctively at the sudden close contact, every other part of him is whispering you've wanted this for so long. He's never thought about anything like this, never had the imagination for it, or maybe just never realized that he wanted it. But there is a half-second lingering between him and Kent's lips, stained red from the wine, and in that slight moment, suddenly all Jack can think about is the journal. The dusty polaroids. The blank pages. The way it hurt him to see so much empty space. 

Thought abandons him. Jack doesn't pull away.

Kent does though, and he leans back against the sink, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"You're being weird," he says, his voice softer. He straightens up a little, scooting back so that their shoulders are no longer touching. "Is this weird?" 

Jack stares at him. "Not for the reasons you think." 

Kent cocks his head, a smirk growing on his lips. "Is it because you don't want to have sex in the bathroom at Tater's wedding?" 

"What?"

"That's too crass for you, Zimmermann? What about for old times' sake?" 

"We're not having sex in the bathroom," Jack chokes as Kent nudges him, cackling, and he tucks his phone back into his pocket, clearing his throat as he stands up straight. "It's just- nothing, it was really loud out there." 

Kent stands up. "Let's take a walk. It's been a long night."

It's been a long ten minutes since Jack woke up here. He takes a breath. "Yeah, sure. Some fresh air sounds good." 

 

 

 

 

The night gets stranger. 

Kent finishes his wine as they're walking back to the reception tent. Jack is in tow, his feet moving without him, his mind running far ahead of his body. He doesn't know what's going on, or what he's doing here, or how he came to be here. Waking up in the golden lights of a late summer wedding, living months in the future, he's tired. He'll take anything that makes sense right now, any explanation for all of this. But Kent's empty glass hangs loosely from one hand, and the other reaches out as they walk, closing the gap between them to wrap their fingers together. The touch electrifies Jack, a sudden warmth on his skin. Kent says nothing about it, and neither does anyone else when they pass through the reception tent. Jack lets himself be led by that warm hand, pulled through a crowd of tables filled with familiar faces. His teammates, his friends, even his parents. 

Jack wants something to make sense right now, anything. But the night only gets stranger. 

They leave the golden light of the tent, trailing down a garden path into the darkness. Their pace slows. Or rather, Kent slows down, adjusting Jack's hand in his grasp, and Jack follows him, holding onto the only steady thing he knows right now. There's a comfort to the way Kent's hand fits in his. This is familiar, something that he thinks they must do. They, whoever they are right now. 

They follow the path, feet traipsing in the dusty grass. The trail hugs an old wooden fence, topped with lanterns that light their way in the night. Ahead, fireflies burn in the midnight sky. Behind them, the fade of music echoes from the reception tent, the cheers and laughter of a summer wedding ringing in their ears as they walk. Jack doesn't know if they're going somewhere, but he lets Kent lead, his fingers still tingling at his touch.

Jack's trying to figure this out. They're together, obviously. Between the kiss and the handholding, that much has been made clear. But he's not sure why he's here, and he's not positive that telling Kent the truth would lead to anything productive. Admitting that he can't remember the last nine months of his life would not be... good. And he's not sure, anyways, that this isn't a dream. It feels real, the breeze in the air and the ground beneath his feet and Kent's hand in his. But he's not sure that that means anything anymore. He's not sure what real is supposed to feel like. He's not sure if he'd be able to tell. If this is his real life, then he'll have to come clean eventually. If this is a dream, then he'll wake up eventually. 

And if not...

Kent turns to glance at him, knocking their shoulders together. "You're thinking so hard that I can practically hear it."

Jack blinks. "I'm processing." 

Kent snorts. "You had one glass of wine."

"It's not that," Jack says as they trail to a stop against the fence. He leans back against it, weary, and Kent follows him, their hand still clasped together. "It's just..." 

He doesn't know the answer. But he takes a chance.

"Do you remember those photos I used to take?" he asks, glancing sideways at Kent. 

Kent glances back, his face half-lit beneath a lantern. "Of course I do. You used to have that Polaroid thing in my face every five minutes. You glued them into your diary like a scrapbooking soccer mom."

"It wasn't a diary," Jack says. "Do you know if I still have it?"

Kent snorts. "You wrote my name inside little hearts."

"Kent."

"I haven't seen it anywhere," Kent says. He looks at Jack, his head cocked slightly to one side, and he gives a small smirk. "Are you always this weird at weddings?" 

"You think I don't have it anymore?"

"It might be at your apartment. I don't know. What's the deal with the photos all of a sudden?"

"I don't know," Jack says. "I was just thinking."

He stops himself from saying anything more, because what explanation could he possibly give? He was thinking that the photos of Kent were the last things he thought of before falling asleep, and then he woke up in a world where Kent is suddenly in his life again, looking every bit as photographable as he did so many years ago? That they might be connected somehow? That if he can find the journal, he can figure out what the hell is going on?

"They're not even good photos," Kent says. "They're polaroids from 2009."

"They're terrible photos," Jack mutters, and they are. He remembers feeling like such an artist when he was taking those pictures, capturing the light across the ice, but he can see the polaroids now in his mind's eye, and they're dusty and faded and full of glares. He smiles. "I hope I still have them."

Kent stares at him for a second, and Jack is sure that he's going to get a chirp for being so sentimental. Instead, Kent blushes and leans over to press a kiss to the corner of Jack's lips. He's warm and sweet, and Jack nearly melts under his touch.

"You drive me crazy," he mutters into Jack's mouth.

Jack is not used to this version of Kent. This mature, affectionate, embarrassed Kent. The Kent who holds his hand in public and dances with him at weddings and still jokes about having sex in the bathroom like teenagers. Jack thinks, maybe, that he could get used to it.

"Is that a turn on?" Jack asks when Kent straightens up, squeezing his hand. "Nostalgia for old photos?"

Kent raises an eyebrow. "Nostalgia for the dumbasses that we used to be? Hell yeah, it is." 

Jack smiles. "I missed this." 

As he says it, he realizes how true it is, how true it's always been. They had their spats and cold shoulders, especially at the end of everything; but like Kent said, they were young and dumb. They'd never talked about their feelings, never outside of the vague notion that they would stay in touch after the draft, and when that time finally came- when Kent moved on and Jack could not, there weren't words to say. Neither of them had the emotional capacity to say what they meant, to make themselves so vulnerable, and so everything ended without another thought.

Being here with Kent, holding hands at a wedding, kissing in the lantern light, admitting how stupid they used to be: it's everything Jack ever wanted. Everything he never knew how to admit that he craved. 

Kent looks at him, a firefly buzzing past. "Miss what? Like I haven't spent the whole night making fun of you?" 

"No," Jack says, and he laughs at first, but then he remembers what he's doing here. His smile fades. "No, I'm sure I've had enough of that tonight."

He wants to know how they ended up at this point. What happened at the draft? What happened to them? Did Jack go to Samwell or was he drafted? He must have made it onto the Falconers at some point. He recognized his teammates in the crowd inside the reception tent. But what about Kent? Did they really stay in touch after all this time? Did they really stay together? He can't imagine that. The people they used to be, the people they became. It seems impossible that there exists a world where Kent has always loved him.

Jack comes back from his thoughts when Kent squeezes his hand, and he glances sideways to find Kent watching him with those mature sea eyes that seem to know every part of him. 

"You've been kind of quiet tonight," Kent says, his voice lower. "You alright?"

Jack knows that unspoken words in that question, and Kent's concern confirms something, at least. There's something for him to worry about, something to be checked and reassured, and it's probably why they've abandoned the crowded party tent to sit back against a splintering fence and watch fireflies light up the night. Jack's probably been acting weird. He knows he's been acting weird, even if he doesn't know how he should be acting. But it's not for the reasons Kent must think.

"I'm fine," Jack says. He gives a hesitant squeeze back, Kent's fingers curled in his. Unsure of touch. "I've been thinking... about us."

Kent pauses for just another moment, his brow drawn. Then he scoffs, smirking, and mutters, "Don't propose to me, Zimms. Just because everyone else is getting married doesn't mean we have to yet."

"It's not that," Jack exclaims, rushing past the implication that this may be a universe in which they get married. 

"Then what?" Kent asks, smirking. "Good things, right?"

"Yeah."

"Nostalgic things?"

"...yeah."

"Sentimental," Kent says, less a question and more a comment on Jack's fatal flaw. "I really don't know where those photos are, if that's what you're thinking about. God, I can't believe you'd even keep them after all this time."

"Of course I'd keep them," Jack says. He tries to remember how the journal ended up at the back of his childhood closet, and he thinks, of course he'd keep the photos. Never in plain sight, never a concrete reminder, but of course, he'd keep them. "I want to find them, when we get home."

Kent squints, thinking. "I think there's one of me taking my shirt off. Frame that one."

"I'm not framing any of them," Jack mutters. He pauses. "I just want to look at them. To remember how we got here."

"You are weird at weddings," Kent sighs.

"Kent," Jack says, looking at him. "We're together. After all this time?"

Kent laughs. "Of course we are."

So Jack understands now. Not the logistics, of course. His brain is still working overtime to understand how this dream can taste like gold and feel like August air, how he can be here and now, in whatever this is, seeing whatever life this is. But he begins to understand why he's here. The journal, the empty pages. The longing he felt and the possibilities he imagined. What they never got to have. Nearly twenty years gone.

It's here. It's all here in this world: all those memories and moments and polaroids. He may be dreaming, but he's dreaming of something that he never knew was possible. All that lost time, made up. All those days, together.

"Of course we are," Jack echoes.

A summer breeze rushes over them. The fireflies float away on the wind, and Jack stands upright, renewed. He sees the party tent alight on the hill and he squeezes Kent's hand.

"Let's go dance," he says.

Kent raises an eyebrow. "Are you serious? I made you do one slow dance earlier and you bitched about your shoes the entire time."

Jack wiggles his toes. In his defense, his shoes are uncomfortable.

"Yeah, come on," he says. He tugs on Kent's hand. "Let's go join the party." 

 

 

 

 

Late August midnight is deep and black, dotted with shining stars, but it hangs lightly across the land as the wedding party comes to an end, the upbeat music fading out into something slower and softer that draws the guests to the exit. Jack's feet ache; he and Kent barely made it through one more dance after they returned from their walk, and then he resumed his spot on the edge of the dance floor, his shoe laces loosened, a fresh glass of wine in his hand. He sat back, the golden lights glimmering overhead, and he watched the world, the one where they're still together after all this time. Kent dipped in and out, ever on the move, slipping between conversations as he made convivial rounds through the tent. Jack entertained several friendly visits at his table. This world is only a few months ahead of his own, but it seems too different to be in the midst of it. Shitty and Lardo showed him pictures of their first house. Gleeful Tater made one last toast with his new wife. His parents traded quips with Kent like they'd been doing it for twenty years. 

The party ends. The weirdest night of Jack's life is over, and he finds himself at his familiar house with the unfamiliar by his side. 

"How drunk are you?" Kent asks, reaching for the keys in Jack's hands. "Can't even unlock the front door. I'm shaking my head, Jack Zimmermann."

"Do you live here?" Jack asks. He's only a little drunk, but he's very distracted by the fact that Kent knew his address and opens his front door with ease. 

Kent snorts. "I told you, don't propose to me."

"No, but do you live here?" Jack asks. He frowns. "Do you still play for the Aces?"

"What parallel reality did you just wake up from?" Kent asks, glancing at him as they step inside. He shuts the front door and begins kicking his shoes off. "No, I don't live here."

"You live in Vegas."

"Yes, Jack. God, that last glass of wine really did you in, didn't it?"

"I'm not drunk," Jack says. Maybe not on wine. He rubs his eyes and shuffles out of his shoes, breathing a sigh of relief. He glances down the dark hallway and wonders if he still has a dog in this universe. "Ariel?"

Kent flicks on the lights. "She's probably asleep."

He does, and Kent knows her.

"Right," Jack says. "I guess we should go to bed." 

He says that slowly as he becomes aware of two facts. Kent Parson is probably still a snuggler in his thirties. More importantly: if Jack falls asleep here, where will he wake up?"

Kent starts into the house, shrugging off his jacket. "I'm gonna take a shower. I smell like grass. Aren't you going to look for those photos?"

Jack glances up, blinking. "Oh."

The photos. The journal. For a moment, he forgot, distracted by the night. He wonders- if he finds the journal, something might happen. It must be linked to all of this, and if he finds it now, what will it do? But Kent's right. He wants to know. He wants to see for himself.

"I don't know if you still have them," Kent says. 

Jack shakes his head. "I still have them."

Kent heads upstairs. Jack stands in the empty hallway for a moment, its walls half lit by the dim overhead light. He tries to think. Where would he have kept the journal in this house? What was he planning on doing with it when he left his parents' house? He wanted to keep it, to save it somewhere, but he doesn't remember if he'd found a place for it. And that point may be moot anyways. If he's had the journal all these years, carried it from one place to the next, then it may be stored somewhere else. It may not be hidden anymore. 

Jack's heart jumps suddenly. He thinks- there's a drawer in the office that's laid bare with memories. It's all the photos and mementos from college, from his friendships, from Bittle. He doesn't know if it'll still be there in this universe, but in his world, it's been touched recently, reorganized with photos from Ireland and magazines from the kiss on the ice. A sentimental drawer that stays locked at the bottom of his desk, for rainy days and grandchildren. The journal might be there.

His mouth goes dry when he steps into the office, flicking on the light switch. The room is exactly the same. There's an empty bookcase in the corner and some camera equipment laid out on the desk. From behind the door, he hears a yawn and then a golden retriever peers out, her tail wagging as soon as she sees him. 

Jack bends over and ruffles Ariel's fur, kissing her brow. "Hey, girl. Still sleeping in here, huh?" 

He's been meaning to use the office for something, but lately, it's been Ariel's space. She withdrew there after Bittle moved out, and after a while, she adopted the room, dozing happily on the dog bed in the corner. Jack frowns as she brushes golden fur all over his slacks. She hasn't always slept in here. The thought lingers for a moment, but then he glances up and sees the drawer that he's looking for. His heart skips a beat, and he heads straight for it.

Everything could be in there. Everything he imagined when he was young, everything he's thought about tonight. All of it contained in the pages of that journal.

The drawer slides open with ease, and there it is, sitting on top.

Jack grabs it and sits back, leaning agains the wall. Ariel wanders over and flops down beside him, her head crossing over his legs. He sets the journal in his lap. The cover is just as crisp as he remembers. He swallows his anticipation and opens it. He flips through the pages, the stiff paper suddenly familiar under his hands. He remembers doing this just hours ago, days ago, in a world not so different from this one. The polaroids are still there in the same places, colorful spots on the white pages, and he passes through them quickly, smiling to himself, wondering what came next. He turns past the last photo and stops short. 

"You find it?" Kent calls from the other room. He appears in the doorway, still in the process of unraveling his tie, and he stares down at Jack. "Hello?"

Jack looks up. "There aren't any photos."

Kent frowns. "Did you take them out?"

"No, these are still here," Jack says. He flips back to the pasted polaroids and runs his fingers over them, his brow furrowed. "But there's nothing else after that." 

“Uh, no, of course there isn’t. That journal’s like twenty years old.”

“But I kept it,” Jack says. He flips back to the empty pages, staring at them. “I thought I would’ve filled it out with more pictures of us.”

When he looks up, Kent is starting at him. “From when?”

Jack blinks. “What?”

“Pictures from when?” Kent repeats. “We haven’t exactly taken a lot of photos together in the last two decades. I think the ones from tonight are the only pictures we’ve taken together this year.”

Jack stares at him. He lowers the journal into his lap, his gaze unmoving, and when he realizes what Kent is saying, his heart drops like lead. There are no more photos. There wouldn't be any more photos, not of the two of them, not from the last twenty years. He sits upright and peers into the drawer. It's full of photos and memorabilia: from Ireland, from his rookie season, from graduation. It's all the same. 

The floor creaks. Jack glances up and then Kent is beside him, bending over to sit on the ground next to him, their backs against the wall. He curls one leg up under himself, giving Ariel space, and glances sideways at Jack, their shoulders touching. "What's going on?"

Jack turns his gaze back to the journal. He flips through the empty white pages, just as many as there were yesterday, and he sighs. "I thought something would have changed." 

"What?"

“In another lifetime,” Jack asks, “do you think we stayed together?”

Kent’s chin settles on his shoulder, his head tucked up against Jack. “Hm. I don’t know if I can answer that.”

"I thought that there was another universe out there," Jack continues, "one where we were still together after all these years." 

He feels Kent’s head lift from his shoulder, and he glances sideways anxiously to meet Kent’s serious gaze.

“Is that what you wanted?” Kent asks.

Jack pauses. “I don’t know. Maybe. I loved you."

“Well, not to brag or anything,” Kent says, smiling at him, “but we were a fucking mess. These photos are cute, you know, but our life wasn’t really like that. I, personally, was a gay disaster."

"So, what does that mean?" Jack asks. "We wouldn't have worked out? You wouldn't have wanted to stay together?" 

Kent shrugs and leans back against the wall. “I don’t know, Zimms. I spent years pining after you, years wishing that things had ended differently or that things hadn't ended at all. I wanted all of that, at some point. 

“But,” he adds after a breath, “I don’t think we would be here now.”

He pauses, then glances sideways at Jack. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not trying to say some shit like we needed to be apart and find ourselves just to see how much we loved each other, or whatever. That’s bullshit.”

Jack cracks a smile.

“I’m just saying,” Kent continues, “you know, we’re here today because of everything that happened between us. Because we made our choices and we moved on and that’s how life works.”

He purses his lips, then reaches over and grabs one of Jack’s hands, settling the embrace on top of the journal before continuing. “I regret a lot about the shit that happened back then. And sometimes I wish I could go back and fix it. But I can’t, and I don’t know how that would turn out either. All either of us can do now is decide to move forward together.”

He lifts their hands and presses a kiss to Jack’s knuckles.

Jack watches him, then murmurs, "I don't remember you being so smart."

"I know some stuff," Kent says, leaning.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," he murmurs over Jack's lips. "Like we both need to shower and it'll save water if we shower together."

Jack laughs through Kent's kiss, their hands still wrapped together. "That's just common sense."

Kent pulls back and pushes himself up onto his knees. "If you're going to insult me, you can at least do it while we're naked."

He drags Jack upright with him, Ariel leaping onto her paws to circle around their feet. Jack holds the closed journal in one hand, and he glances down at it for a moment before the nostalgic part of him bids farewell and allows his brain to realize exactly what Kent is saying. The journal slips out of his hands, landing back in its place inside the drawer, and Jack lets himself be pulled close by Kent until their chests are touching, one of Kent's arms tucked firmly around his waist. His hands slips beneath the belt of Jack's slacks, tugging at the tucked end of his dress shirt. Jack vibrates with anticipation.

Kent leans back a bit, staring at him. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," Jack says. 

"You're, like, shaking."

"I'm," Jack starts, thinks, and continues, "excited."

Kent snorts, a smile cracking on his lips. "Then show it to me, you fool."

Oh god, oh god. Is that something they do, now that they're midlife and mature and definitely can't move the way they did when they were teenagers? Sweet talk?? 

"Sure," Jack murmurs, leaning.

And though it's been a while, it feels natural when Kent's lips come up to meet his. A proper kiss, finally, after spending the whole night dancing around each other, lips brushing over skin and hands clasped together in the darkness. Kent's touch is firm but familiar, and that sets Jack alight all over again. If it's possible for this to happen just a few months in the future, he wonders what they'll have to do to get there. Nothing is different from his world except the timing, which means that in a few months' time, there's a chance that this will be real: Kent's hand starting on the buttons of his dress shirts, Kent's lips pressing warmly against his, and Kent's heart beating in time on Jack's chest. 

"You're still thinking," Kent murmurs into the kiss. 

"Only good things," Jack mutters back. He presses one hand on Kent's jaw, deepening the kiss for just a moment before Kent pulls away. 

"Come on," he says, smirking as he jerks his head towards the door. He grabs Jack's hand and they start towards the door, their fingers tingling where their skin touches. 

Jack is smiling to himself, giddy, excitable, in love all over again, and he can't wait to find out what else he's missing, what else Kent has to show him, to find out what it feels like to wake up together. He takes a deep breath as they near the door, and just as they're crossing the threshold of the office, Kent spinning around to wrap an arm around his waist, Jack blinks and-

 

 

 

 

He jerks awake with a start. 

"Wait," Jack exclaims, a whispered shout as he clutches the arms of his seat and stares, unblinking, at the small screen in front of him. The airline's logo spins around on the screen. Jack takes a breath, his fingers still grasping at the seat. He glances around. The woman next to him has one hand over her heart, still swearing to herself.

"Don't do that," she gasps when she catches him looking. She lets out a shaky breath. "Christ, you had me thinking that the damn plane was about to drop out of the sky."

Jack's hands relax on the seat. "Sorry, I was just, uh, dreaming or something."

She huffs. "I'll say. You've been muttering to yourself for the last three hours."

She shakes her head, frowning, and returns to her book. "Every time I fly into Vegas, I swear to god, there's always some loon on the plane."

Jack runs a hand over his face, pushing it back through his hair, and he takes a deep breath. He turns to stare out the window as the plane begins its descent over the desert. "Vegas, right. We're going to Vegas." 

 

 

 

 

Night has just fallen when Jack’s plane lands. It’s a late winter evening, the purple sky falling over the desert landscape. But it’s warm and soft and windy, and it makes Jack think of the August evening at Tater’s wedding. The evening that’s still to come, yet that he’s already lived. At least, he thinks he lived it. He knows he can’t have actually been there, but it’s all real in his mind, in his memory. He can taste the last glass of wine he had at the reception and feel the fireflies buzzing around his head. He can feel Kent’s lips on his.

It must have been only a dream. But Jack can’t help feeling that it was real.

These two thoughts linger in his mind as he heads to the arena for the night's game. He's been gone for only a few days, but the world feels different when he reunites with his team in the locker room. Things seem so much smaller in comparison to what he's just seen: the future, he supposes, or at least a future. At least what he dreamed that the future could be.

All of these thoughts linger through the night, and the Falconers are just about to hit the ice when the realization explodes in Jack's face. 

It must've been a dream. It could've been a dream. It may not have been a dream. It was a future, or the future. It could be this future. 

Jack is dizzy as he skates onto the ice, as lights and music swirl across the stadium, circling the rink, as the game begins and suddenly Kent Parson is there again, in the flesh, meeting Jack's eyes over the ice, a narrow flash of sea and silver that makes Jack's stick slip in his hands. Whistle, puck, ice, and in the blink of an eye, the Falconers lose, hard.  

It may be the most miserable loss of his career. It may be the most miserable loss of anyone's career, ever. Jack is not looking forward to being picked apart by the media, especially not after the verbal ass beating that the entire team receives in the locker room. Jack tries not to shrink too far down in his seat when it comes to that. The whole team played poorly tonight, off balance, out of focus, and it was entirely Jack's fault for not being able to keep Kent Parson's kisses out of his mind. It's amazing how many times Kent can fake him out with just a smirk. 

There will be other games, Jack reasons. But there will never be another moment like this one.

The side door swings open, creaking, and Jack straightens up from where he's been leaning against the wall, checking his watch. He knows Kent's postgame routine, knows that Kent always exits out the back and whistles to himself while skipping to his car, but he should have known that he'd be a little behind schedule tonight, after the Aces crushed them on the ice. A figure comes through the doorway, stepping into the night, car keys twirling in one hand; then he stops and blinks when he sees Jack standing there.

"Well, well, well," Kent says, unable to keep a grin from sprouting on his face. "I didn't think you'd be able to show your face around here tonight, not after a game like that."

Jack shrugs. "I guess I was just distracted."

Kent snorts and lets the door slam shut as he starts towards Jack, adjusting the bag on his shoulder. "You set a new record tonight for distracted. Don't think I didn't catch you looking at my ass, Zimmermann. It was just that hard to keep your eyes on the puck, huh?"

"Sure," Jack says. He tucks his hands into his pockets. "Do you want to go to Tater's wedding with me?" 

Kent stares at him. "What the fuck?"

"I've been thinking a lot," Jack continues. "I think we could have something." 

"Zimms," Kent says. He drops his bag onto the ground and furrows his brow tightly. "What the actual fuck?"

"If this is too weird, then we can just pretend that it never happened."

Kent pauses, his mouth hanging halfway open as he stares at Jack. Then he closes it, takes a breath, and mutters, "I mean, this is fucking weird."

"Well, then, should I just-"

"But I'm mostly just surprised," Kent says, one eyebrow cocking up. "When was the last time we even talked?"

"It hasn't been that long," Jack starts to say.

"It's been like six months since we last talked and now you're asking me to go to your goalie's wedding with you?" Kent exclaims. "After I kicked your ass tonight?"

He narrows his eyes. "Wait, were you into that? Because I could get used to it."

"Okay, Kent-"

"It's fucking weird, Jack," Kent continues, and Jack is beginning to wonder if he even had a dream at all, or maybe it was just a really bad drug trip. 

"Then I'll go," Jack says, taking a step back. "We can pretend like this never happened."

Kent holds up a finger. "Now, hang the fuck on, I didn't say I wanted that."

"You just said-"

"I meant," Kent exclaims, then stops for a moment. He stares at Jack under the yellow glow of the wall light, half of his face lit, the other half in the shadow of the moon. Something seems to be happening inside his head, and Jack stands, frozen, as Kent's eyes cross over him, making an evaluation. 

Finally, Kent hums. 

He leans onto one hip, crossing his arms, and gives Jack a small smile. "You keep me on my toes, Zimms."

Jack's heart jumps. "In a good way?" 

"In an enticing way, if nothing else."

Jack clears his throat and he steps forward again, shrugging with his hands in his pockets. "Well, listen, I was just thinking, because... it seems like we keep coming back to each other, and I think that could be something." 

He glances up, meeting Kent's eyes. "If that's what you want?"

Kent clicks his tongue. "I have always wondered what it'd be like to bone you as a mature and responsible adult." 

Jack sighs. "So romantic."

"I'm kidding," Kent exclaims. He's close enough that he can reach out and nudge Jack's arm, although it's more like a smack. "I'm not actually kidding, but if you came here tonight just to ask me to a wedding eight months from now, then maybe it's a bit too soon to joke about boning you." 

Jack smiles. "But seriously, Kent. Is this something you want?" 

Kent watches him, the purple night fading into black overhead. There's not much space between them now, and though Jack knows it has been a while (in this world) since they last talked, he still feels as if so little has changed. He feels like he could reach out and grab Kent and kiss him, and it would all happen so naturally, even after all this time. 

Kent smiles. "Yeah, Jack. I want this." 


End file.
